


New Moon

by TheChainLink



Category: Original Work
Genre: Amnesia, Investigations, Looking tired and feeling quite sick, Supernatural Elements, Werewolf, Woke up cold one Thursday, the next morning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:14:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27559663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheChainLink/pseuds/TheChainLink
Summary: For anyone else, waking up with no memory of the previous night could be chalked up to a hangover.For Red, a hangover would be a welcome alternative to the truth.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 1





	New Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Complete at last! Took me long enough!
> 
> Thanks to SpiritsShackled and janey_p for helping to bring this story back to life.

First, there was nothing.

Then came something new: a dull throbbing sensation, pain somewhere in my lower body.

My eyes flickered open, and I was greeted by dim lighting and the stone brick walls of a cellar. 

I blinked rapidly, trying to force my eyes all the way open. I realised that I was slumped awkwardly against the wall, with my entire body weight resting on my right leg, like a rag doll that had been tossed aside. I was also covered from head-to-toe in cuts and bruises and naked to the waist, with the ragged remains of what might once have been a pair of jeans as my only clothing. And on top of all that was the mother of all headaches.

Shifting my weight to restore circulation, I got to my feet… and was stopped short. I tried again and this time felt something cold pulling against my ankle, accompanied by the _clink_ of metal against metal. I looked down. I had to double-take because I couldn’t believe what I was seeing: this guy – whoever he was – had handcuffed my right leg to a corner of rusted pipe protruding from the wall.

‘You’ve got to be fucking _kidding_ me.’ I muttered.

Although as I came to full consciousness, I became aware of a bigger problem – my memory of the previous night was practically non-existent aside from a few flashes. Trying to remember was like watching a badly-edited movie trailer.

There came a faint yawn from the corner, and for the first time I noticed the sleeping figure in the corner with a shotgun in a vice-like grip. Judging from the bags around his eyes, he had been sitting there all night.

Suddenly the sleeping guy’s eyes beginning to open. At the sight of me, he snapped wide awake and his hand reflexively tightened around the shotgun barrel.

‘You’re awake!’ he said, the words no more than a whisper.

‘No shit.’ I snapped. The words just slipped out, and I regretted it immediately; mouthing off to a guy with an itchy trigger finger was like poking a bear with a stick. Most people would put a hole in my face there and then.

But something about this guy was different. Now that I could get a proper look at him, I saw that he was young, certainly no older than me. His bloodshot eyes were wide and never looked away. The shotgun barrel was shaking in his grip, and I was willing to bet that the safety was still on. Hell, I doubt he even knew how to load the thing.

He was afraid of me. It was perfectly understandable.

If I had been in his position, I would be afraid of me too.

Twenty, thirty seconds went by and we simply stared at each other, waiting for the other to speak.

So I did: ‘You gonna let me out of this, or do you have a hacksaw somewhere I could use?’ I asked only half-sarcastically.

‘And why the hell would I do that?’ He aimed the shotgun a little higher, so I was now staring down the barrel. ‘I know what you are! Freak!’

I opened my mouth to retort, but decided to hold my tongue. ‘Well in that case, you’d know all about my… _freakishness.’_ The word sounded dirty in my mouth. ‘And that it won’t crop up again for another month or so.’

I drew myself up to my full height for the first time. Mr Trigger Happy stepped backwards, well beyond my already-limited reach. ‘Don’t fucking move!’ He yelled. ‘Take one more step and I’ll shoot, I swear I will!’

‘Listen.’ I began, ‘I just need you to listen-‘

I took a step forward.

It happened so quickly that it took my brain a few seconds to process it. 

You know how I’d assumed that the guy was bluffing? Well, you know what they say about assumptions – they make an ass out of you and me.

You never fully understand what that means until a shotgun round buries itself in your chest.

The force was enough to blast me back against the wall and I collapsed in a heap, my chest searing with white-hot pain crashing in waves across my body. An already-substantial pool of blood was growing at my feet. I heard the guy pump the shotgun like he was the damn Terminator, followed by the empty shell falling to the floor.

I took a deep breath, then got a foot beneath me. Then the other. Summoning all the strength I had, I forced myself upright so I was once again standing up straight and making eye contact. The pain began to lessen as my body filled in the gaping hole in my chest, forcing the projectile out and onto the floor with a small _clink._

Again there was pure silence between us. Trigger looked about ready to shit himself. This time _he_ was the first to break the silence: ‘How the fuck are you still alive?’

I gave a humourless smile. ‘You said it yourself. I’m a freak.’

The shotgun fell from his hands and clattered to the floor. ‘You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?’

I lifted my right leg, drawing the chain of the handcuffs to its full length. ‘Not if you take these things off.’

He snatched up the shotgun, then remembered, but kept hold of it anyway. ‘And why the hell would I do that?’

‘Because I asked you to? And because right now I can barely stand?’

He looked me up and down, as though he was sizing me up. Still hesitating, he maintained his grip on the gun. ‘Promise you won’t hurt me?’

 _Aren’t you the guy who shot me in the chest a minute ago?_ I thought. ‘Right now,’ I said aloud, ‘I doubt I could even if I wanted to.’

He took a deep breath and exhaled, seemingly in debate with himself. Then he set the gun aside and fished a small key out of his pocket. As he came over to me he was shaking his head, as though scolding himself for letting himself be tricked. I couldn’t care less; I was just glad to get the things off. The manacle was removed, revealing chafed red flesh underneath. I must’ve been struggling against it in my sleep.

‘Thanks.’ I said. Then, without warning my stomach emitted a sound akin to a whale’s mating call. The guy seemed taken aback, but simply rolled his eyes and beckoned for me to follow him up the cellar steps.  
  


We emerged into a narrow, crumbling brick hallway below another flight of stairs. ‘You really live here?’ I asked.

‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’ He replied without looking back. ‘When I moved into this place, I thought it was condemned. I’m lucky it hasn’t collapsed on me by now.’

I followed him into the hallway and we passed by the front door, which was hanging from a solitary hinge. A gust of wind caused it to creak and almost blow open before he pushed it back into place.

‘What happened to the door?’ I asked.

 _‘You_ happened to it.’ He replied shortly. 

Then he led me into what I could only assume to be the kitchen: a blackened oven and a few simple wooden cupboards were tucked into the corner, topped off by a sink that seemed to be the only clean thing in the room. Next to the doorway a fridge was propped against the wall, as though he had been meaning to move it but never had. And in the centre stood a round table accompanied by a couple of chairs. He gestured for me to sit down, then headed into the corner. He picked up a box of matches, struck one against the side, snapped it, swore, then took out another and watched it ignite on the first try. He dropped it onto the stove, watched the blue flame flicker into life. then bent down and started rooting through one of the cupboards. After a few seconds he emerged clutching half a side of bacon, cut off five thick rashers and laid them on the pan, which quickly erupted in a crackling of boiling grease.

‘This’ll take a few minutes.’ He said. A few seconds later he turned back. ‘I forgot to ask. What do I call you?’

‘Just call me Red. And you?’

‘Leo. Leo Eastman.’

For a while I simply sat there, listening to the bacon sizzle and taking in its scent; Even as a human, I still knew something good when I smelled it. Looking around, I noticed a small pile of newspapers resting on one of the chairs. I lifted the pile onto the table, smoothed out the topmost issue to get a clearer look, then frowned.

 **BODIES FOUND IN SOHO!** Read the headline of _The Times_. I moved it over to get a look at the next one:

 **MYSTERY KILLER STRIKES AGAIN!** Screamed _The Daily Mail._

 **MONTHLY MURDERS A MYSTERY!** Yelled _The Guardian._

 **BRUTAL KILLINGS BAFFLE POLICE!** Proclaimed _The Mirror._

 **SEAN CONNERY PASSES AWAY AT 90!** Announced _The Independent._

I shook my head and threw the last one away altogether – there was always one. But then I stopped. I wasn’t familiar with this next paper: _The City Teller,_ a decidedly pulpy-looking affair covered in a mass of photographs and headlines that were as brightly-coloured as they were fake. But then the centrepiece caught my eye:

**LONDON RIPPER CAUGHT ON CAMERA!**

I averted my eyes before I could see the adjacent photograph, trying to keep my breathing steady. Bracing myself, I took a peek.

What I saw was not so much concerning as it was confusing.

The photograph was in black-and-white with a phony, washed-out look; it had clearly been converted from colour, and none too carefully it seemed. The angle was skewed and a little blurry, like a still from a found-footage film, but the centrepiece was still easy to make out against the bright white contrast of the camera flash: a hulking black figure shrouded in shadow, with the jagged ears atop its head perked upwards looking like horns on a demon’s head. The photo’s perspective and poor quality left the beast’s face almost completely lost in the darkness, save for its most defining feature: a single visible eye, burning like fire.

From what I could make out, the creature’s arched back was half-turned, as though it had only just noticed the photographer. The caption underneath read, _“Photograph recovered from camera found at the murder scene.”_ Whoever took the photo was long gone.

My head began to swim, and I had to brace myself against the worktop to keep from falling; I’d always suspected that I had killed people – it was something I had learned to live with – but the thought of being responsible for the deaths of so many people… it just didn’t compute.

Suddenly there were a series of small bangs like a bunch of firecrackers going off, startling me. I looked up and caught Leo’s eye for a split second before he looked back to the bacon, which had begun to spit.

‘So,’ I began. ‘Are you a journalist or something?’

‘I try to be.’ He replied, a note of bitterness in his voice. ‘”Try” being the operative word. I get by.’

He put three rashers on a plate and placed them in front of me. They were a little burnt, but everything tastes good when you’re hungry. As I ate he took a carton of eggs from the fridge and cracked three of them into the pan.

Within seconds the bacon was finished. My stomach growled, calling out for more. To take my mind off it, I asked him, ‘Doesn’t it bother you a little, having someone like me in your house?’

Leo paused for a moment. ‘You mean something like _them?’_ He asked, gesturing to the pile of papers. ‘Yes. Yes it does.’

It took me several seconds before I asked my next question, partially because Leo was trying to concentrate, but mostly because I wasn’t sure I’d like his answer. ‘Did you take that photo? The one in the _Teller?’_

‘No.’ He replied immediately. Then, almost as an afterthought: ‘But I do have photos.’

That last comment almost made me choke. ‘Photos of me? Like _that?’_

Another pause. Then: ‘Yes.’

‘Can I see them?’

Leo stopped altogether and turned to face me. ‘Are you sure? You might not like what you see.’

Again the image flashed to mind: I saw myself looking through those blazing eyes, closing in on my prey, lashing out, tearing flesh and bone– 

I fought the image back. ‘I’m sure.’

‘Alright. If you insist.’ Pausing only to put the fried eggs on a plate and handing them to me, he went out for a few seconds, reappeared with a red satchel, set it down on the table and fished out a handful of photos. Sliding them across to me, he avoided my gaze and got up and headed back into the corner, as though he was afraid to see my reaction. I laid them out, all five of them.

Three of the photos were taken from behind, all from skewed angles – obviously rushed – the others were a full body shot of me lying on my side and a close-up of a sleeping head.

You know when you look at old photos of yourself as a child? Maybe you’re shorter, thinner, you remember that unmanageable hair and buck-toothed smile. It’s like looking at a completely different person, right?

Now imagine looking at what looks like something out of a horror movie and knowing that it’s real, and it’s you.

And this _was_ me – a tall, lean, albino beast, white fur matted with dried blood. This creature walked on its hind legs and pressed against the ceiling when fully upright – quite a departure from the _Teller’s_ London Ripper. I exhaled and felt my entire body loosen up. The relief was almost enough to make me laugh.

Then something new came to mind, and my smile disappeared.

‘That issue of the _Teller,’_ I said. ‘When’s it from?’

Leo frowned. ‘Uhh…’ He picked up the paper to check. ‘October 3rd. Just a few days after the September full moon.’

I scooped fried egg into my mouth and chewed. ‘That was less than a month ago.’ I explained between bites. ‘That kind of paper rushes out whatever news it has as fast as possible. Someone like me can’t get too far in that time, believe me. What about the other papers?’

Leo looked through the rest of them. ‘October 7th, October 10th, 12th, 18th… the most recent one is from just over a week ago.’

He sat back in his chair. ‘Then this thing could still be in the city. Hell, if not them, then another one.’

My throat suddenly felt dry. I grabbed my cup of coffee and downed it in one, almost scalding my mouth in the process. The stuff was black and bitter as hell, but in the moment, that was exactly what I needed, clearing my head so I could think straight.

‘Those other papers.’ I said slowly. ‘You said one of those papers was from, like, the middle of the month, right?’

Leo checked the papers again. ‘Uh… it says on the 13th, two bodies were found in an alleyway in Soho, then another the next day near some crappy housing estate. Says all three were relatively fresh, with claw and bite marks all over.’

I paused to mull this over: no matter how obscure the location was, there was no way people would take that long to discover a dead body out in the open – this was London, after all – and only a werewolf could do that kind of damage. But then a werewolf couldn’t exist outside a full moon-

It was all too much – I slammed my fist down on the table, shattering the empty coffee mug and almost making Leo fall out of his chair.

‘Sorry.’ I muttered. ‘Lost my temper.’

‘It’s fine.’ Leo replied, never quite taking his eyes off me. ‘Look, you probably don’t want to hear this, but what if this wasn’t a werewolf? What if it-’ He paused for a moment, as though the very words he was saying were choking him up. ‘What if this is something else?’

In that moment his response seemed so absurd, so _incomprehensible_ that at first I couldn’t even speak. I could only shake my head, the words echoing in my mind, taunting me.

_Not a werewolf._

_Something else._

_Something else…_

_…Something different…_

_…Something…_

‘No…’ I murmured. ‘Couldn’t be. _Can’t_ be.’

Leo leaned forward in his chair. ‘What? Can’t be what?’

‘Do you have a car?’ I asked.

‘All I have is a motorbike. Why?’

‘Because I need to get to Soho. Can I use it?’

‘Not unless I’m coming with you.’

My response was automatic: ‘No fucking way.’

‘Then no deal.’

‘Trust me, you don’t want to get involved with this. For all we know, this could be the edge of a damn rabbit hole.’

‘I don’t care. I’m not letting some stranger take my motorbike to a murder scene.’

‘I can handle myself.’

I raised an eyebrow. ‘Having a shotgun that you probably got on some black market doesn’t mean you can handle yourself.’

Leo straightened in indignation. ‘Okay, first of all, I got that thing from a legitimate dealer.’

I scoffed. ‘How legitimate was he?’

He scowled and averted eye contact, like a guilty child being questioned by a parent. ‘I mean, he did sound high off his arse-‘

I had to stifle a laugh, then straightened my face as Leo shot me a glare. ‘Either you let me come, or you’re walking. Make your choice.’

I took the opportunity to look him over again, properly sizing him up for the first time: he was fairly tall, about a head above me, with a decent build. But he was barely into his twenties, with his whole life ahead of him – did I really want to drag him into this?

But slowly the reality of my situation set in, and I realised that I needed all the help I could get.

I closed my eyes and bowed my head. _God forgive me._

‘Alright, fine.’ I said finally. 

‘You sure?’

‘Honestly, no. But you’re one of the only people I know in this city that I can trust. And we’re leaving now. If that’s alright with you.’ I added quickly.

‘Fine. The garage is the second door on the right.’

‘You have a garage?’

‘What can I say? This place wasn’t a total waste of money.’ He got up to leave. After a few seconds he noticed that I wasn’t following. ‘You coming?’

‘Yeah, but-‘ I looked down at myself and felt a little sheepish. ‘-do you have any clothes I could borrow?’

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to SpiritsShackled for proofreading, as well as acting as my technical advisor for certain details.
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpiritsShackled
> 
> TCL: I think imma shoot Red. Show the readers this ain't just a regular guy.  
> Spirits: *thumbs-up*  
> TCL: Choice:  
> 1\. Red wakes up with a bullet somewhere non-fatal, watches as his body forces it out like it ain't sh*t and heals up.  
> 2\. Leo gets trigger happy, shoots Red, Red's like "dude, the f*ck?", and Leo is freaked out. In this case I would probably change the type of gun because I know shotgun fire can absolutely wreck people at close range.  
> Spirits: So? Wreck him. Hammer it home that he's not human.  
> TCL: The choice is made. Red is getting wrecked. 
> 
> And some more out of context:  
> Spirits: Yeah bitches, 'sup from the notes!
> 
> TCL: *looks through the Wikipedia article for shotguns and randomly chooses pump-action*  
> Oh, they're easier to reload.  
> Oh, they have a lot more power and damage potential.  
> Oh sh*t it's the gun from Shaun of the Dead. It's going in.


End file.
